


throw me in the deep end

by shineyma



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post-Episode: s03e16 Paradise Lost, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-13
Updated: 2016-04-13
Packaged: 2018-06-01 23:45:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6541654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jemma didn't consider the implications of Hive carrying the memories of his hosts. She should have.</p>
            </blockquote>





	throw me in the deep end

**Author's Note:**

> As implied by the tag, this has **SPOILERS** for 3x16: Paradise Lost. Otherwise known as the episode that aired tonight, April 12. If you haven't seen it yet, PLEASE proceed with caution!
> 
> Also I owe comment replies but I NEEDED to get this down. So.

Jemma wakes to two distinct and drastically different sensations: a horrid pounding in her head and gentle fingers carding through her hair.

Other things are slower to filter in: she’s cold. She’s lying on something soft—softer than whatever her cheek is resting on. Someone is speaking, quietly, and the voice is familiar, even if she can’t quite make sense of the words. The fingers in her hair never falter in their rhythm.

She knows they’re not—that they can’t be—but just for a moment, she lets herself pretend that they’re Will’s. She keeps her eyes closed and imagines they’re at the Playground, in the rec room. She’s dozed off while introducing him to one of the countless films he missed while stranded on that horrible planet, and rather than disturb her, he’s rearranged her to sleep more comfortably on his thigh while he finishes watching. They are safe and happy and—

And it’s only a fantasy. Will’s dead.

So who is it that’s stroking her hair?

Even as she wonders, the sounds she’s hearing resolve themselves, finally, into words—and that’s all it takes to recognize the voice.

The way she recoils is more instinct and reflex than intent; before she even consciously processes the implications of what she’s heard, she’s moving, up and off the couch and attempting to run. But her head reels and her vision swims and she doesn’t even make it two steps before she’s on the floor, heart pounding in her ears.

It—the creature, the awful _thing_ that terrorized her for months and killed Will and is now wearing the face of a man who _tortured_ her the last time she saw him—sighs.

“You should take more care,” it says, gently scolding, and stands. “You’re injured.”

Standing is obviously pointless, so she scrambles back across the floor as he approaches her. She’s brought to an abrupt halt when her back hits the wall, but he keeps coming, and in seconds he’s lowering himself to his knees in front of her.

 _It_. Not he. _It_. Just because it _looks_ male—looks like _Ward_ —doesn’t make it any less a thing.

It frowns slightly. “My _name_ is Hive. And I am not a thing.”

“You’re a _parasite_ ,” she says, forcing the words out past the tightness in her throat. Her own voice makes her head pound harder, but she didn’t cringe in the face of Ward’s torture, and she won’t cringe now. “I saw what you did to those men and I’ve studied…”

Her voice dies on her midstream, because remembering her study of the corpses from Transia Corporation leads to remembering reporting her findings to Coulson, and _that_ leads to the last memory she has: Giyera’s escape. Zephyr One’s crash landing.

The team.

“What,” she asks, as calmly as she’s able, “have you done to my team?”

It—Hive—smiles. “Nothing.” The smile sharpens. “Yet.”

He (why is it so much harder to think of it as _it_ when it’s wearing Ward’s face? As though being _pretty_ makes it less of a nightmare) reaches out to tuck her hair behind her ear, and, trapped against the wall, she has no way to recoil.

“What do you want?” she asks.

“You, of course,” he says, appearing slightly surprised. His fingers trace along the line of her temple and then down her cheek, and Jemma sucks in a breath as her pain melts away like it never was. “I know you’re aware I carry the memory of my hosts. Surely you didn’t think I would forget my love for you.”

His tone softens as he says it, becoming earnest and kind in a way Ward never could have managed. It’s _Will’s_ tone, and it stabs at her heart.

But it also steels her resolve, because though the tone is his, the words are decidedly not.

“You are _not_ _Will_ ,” she says, slowly and clearly.

Hive only smiles. “I carry him within me, as I carry all of my hosts. He has departed this life, and your friend _Fitz_ —” his voice turns ugly, but only for a moment “—destroyed his body. I am the closest thing you will ever have again.”

Jemma closes her eyes as tears sting at them, because she knows that’s true. Will is gone—forever—and no amount of fantasizing or daydreaming or _anything_ will ever bring him back. It’s a truth she must face every day, one she reminds herself of first thing every morning and last thing every night: she will never see him again.

She can’t imagine his loss will ever stop hurting. Having it thrown in her face like this doesn’t help at all.

Once she’s managed to contain her reaction, she opens her eyes to find Hive watching her patiently.

“I would rather have _nothing_ than have you,” she tells him evenly.

His smile doesn’t falter. In fact, it grows, and something in Jemma goes cold.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he says, sounding regretful in a way he doesn’t at all look. “As I said, however, I carry _all_ of my hosts within me. Will was a good man, but he was one of very, very few.” He cups her jaw, and an inhuman—or Inhuman—strength keeps her from turning her head away as he leans in to kiss her briefly. “Grant Ward knows what you’ll do for the sake of your team.”

Her whole body is buzzing from the kiss, however short it was, and as a result, it takes her a moment to process those words. When she does, an awful chill crawls down her spine.

“What are you saying?” she demands, far too frightened for the others to care about the waver to her voice.

Hive’s smile grows wider still.

“I’m saying that I have all of the human members of your team in my possession,” he says lightly. “And without power, they’re useless to me…except as hostages.”

“You—”

“As long as you behave,” he continues, calmly, “they will remain unharmed. The moment you try to leave, however…”

He doesn’t finish the threat. He doesn’t _need_ to. His tone makes it for him quite effectively.

Jemma’s heart is a painful lump in her throat. Even if she knew what to say to that—even if, somehow, she knew the precise combination of pleas and demands and bargaining that could dissuade an ancient, psychopathic parasite from a chosen course of action—she doesn’t believe the words would come.

“Now,” Hive says, and pushes to his feet, “I’ve taken your pain away, but the injury remains. You need your rest.”

He extends a hand— _Ward’s_ hand, one of the hands that tore her apart so very recently—and waits.

For a moment, she’s frozen, torn between surrender and selfish terror. Her team’s lives depend on her. Fitz. May. Coulson. Mack. Even Zephyr One’s crew, assuming they haven’t been killed already.

But precisely what might he mean by _behave_? What does he _want_ from her? Can she afford to give it to him?

Can she afford to _not_?

“Come,” Hive says gently. “Lie down and get some rest.”

She takes his hand and lets him pull her to her feet without a word of protest. The smile he gives her is all Will, but it only looks wrong on Ward’s face. She has to look away.

Surrender doesn’t mean defeat, she tells herself. She loves and will protect her team, but that can take many forms. And he obviously intends to keep her close, so…

“I’m going to kill you,” she informs him, keeping her eyes fixed firmly over his shoulder.

He laughs.

“You can try,” he offers, and kisses her temple. He leaves his lips there when he continues, murmuring his words against her skin as though to ensure they sink into her mind. “If your attempt is impressive enough, I’ll even let you choose which of your friends dies for it.”

To that, there’s nothing at all to say.

Jemma follows him back to the couch, heart heavy and cold.


End file.
